


Small considerations between partners

by AllyinthekeyofX



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff with extra fluff, Friendship/Love, Gift Giving, MSR, UST
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-08-29 00:28:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8468812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllyinthekeyofX/pseuds/AllyinthekeyofX
Summary: A series of vignettes that feature moments of friendship and love between our two favourite agents.  One for each season and also both movies with some being more along mature lines.  All will be canon compliant, a couple will be post episode.





	1. Chocolate drops do not constitute medicine - Season one

I can feel Mulder watching me from across the room.

I hate it when he watches me like this; it makes me feel uncomfortable to know he is filling his working hours scrutinising me instead of concentrating on the job in hand and God knows he must surely be aware that they are just looking for a reason to shut us down. Working but not working isn’t exactly going to further his cause should we be called to question as to why the reports requested by Skinner and which litter his chaotic workspace are being largely ignored by him right now.

But today I’m aware that really, I only have myself to blame because when I woke up this morning with a pounding headache, limbs that alternated between a dragging heaviness and a nauseating ache that settled right in the marrow of my bones and a throat that felt like someone had miniaturised themselves to an extent that they were able to climb in there at some point during the night and do a sandblasting job with powdered glass, I probably should have just admitted defeat and called in sick.

I didn’t of course because being sick constitutes being weak and Dana Scully does not show weakness. No Siree. So I just self-medicated; hoping for the best as I forced myself in to the shower where I stood limply, hoping the heat of the water would in some small way chase away the chills that were racing up and down my back at fairly regular intervals.

I kind of knew this was coming – a rare day out this past weekend in the sole company of my small Godson had seemed like a precious gift at the time – but as the day wore on the gift became less enjoyable as his six year old self escalated in crankiness at roughly the same rate as his temperature had risen and by the time Ellen arrived to pick him up, Trent was clinging to me like a four-limbed limpet; heat radiating off him as he coated my shoulder in a not inconsiderable layer of snot and drool and I was already steeling myself for the inevitable.

Because I’ve noticed during the course of the months I have been working alongside Mulder that I seem to pick up every bug going. Maybe it’s the fact that we spend relatively long periods just with each other that makes me an easy target when I finally venture out in to the germ ridden world above or it’s simply that I don’t take such meticulous care of myself as I did in my pre-Mulder existence; that having him as a partner pretty much negates adequate sleep and regular wholesome meals.

Annoyingly though, Mulder seems to positively thrive on the disjointed lifestyle that working on the X-Files demands; able to function at the top of his game on scant rest and a diet of greasy take-out food. 

Because he is never sick.

Ever.

You would be forgiven for thinking that, as is often the case with irritatingly healthy individuals, that he has no patience with illness in others and certainly my Father had enjoyed years of rude good health before the coronary unexpectedly and cruelly took him from us just a few short months ago; and back when we were kids only impending death or a temperature close to combustible levels were sufficient for us to be tucked in to bed and fed chicken soup. If neither applied we were just expected to suck it up.

But Mulder? Mulder is different. Maybe it’s due to his fine New England upbringing or maybe it’s simply due to the fact that he hasn’t had anyone to be concerned about for a very long time but I have noticed, even from right at the very beginning when he clearly didn’t trust me and resented my reasons for me being thrust in to his domain, that he has always been extremely sensitive regarding my continued wellbeing.

In fact, “Are you okay Scully?” has been levelled at me so many times that I now find myself always automatically assuring him that I’m fine even when I’m not and it’s not that I want to hurt his feelings, nor that I am immune to his concern, but frankly I am a grown woman and more than capable of taking care of myself.

Well, except on days like today of course where a wholly misplaced pride prevented me from listening to the little voice inside my head that told me the smart thing to do would be to simply turn up the heat in my apartment to tropical and crawl back to bed where I could quietly wallow in a pit of misery until such time as my body deigned fit to fight off the virus that had invaded it courtesy of Trent.

But I hadn’t. I had instead dragged myself to work and tried to hide from my partner that in reality, I felt pretty much like death warmed over and I should have known better than to try to fool a man who can strip me inside out with a single glance. Hiding things from Mulder is like trying to knit with the wind – a lot of effort with nothing to show for it at the end. And right now as I feel his eyes boring in to me, I know that he is building himself up in order to address his concerns.

His words though, when they finally come, are as far away from what I was expecting as they could possibly be.

“Chocolate drops Scully.”

I jerk my head up and wonder suddenly if my slight fever is actually worse than I had thought and is in fact, giving way to auditory hallucinations.

I glance across at where he is lounging back in his chair, relieved in part to find he is looking straight at me.

“Chocolate drops Mulder?”

“Yep. Best medicine there is for sore throats.”

“Mulder I haven’t got a sore....”

He holds his hand up and like Pavlov’s dog I immediately stop, recognising the futility of denial where this man is concerned. 

“Scully I know you’re sick. From the minute you walked in this morning it was obvious; you look like hell and every time you swallow you pull this face...”

He grimaces and closes his eyes briefly in a pretty accurate representation of a baby sucking on a lemon then grins apologetically at me. Clearly my attempts to appear normal have been less than successful but I decide to let it go in order to address the bigger issue.

“Chocolate drops do not in any way constitute medicine Mulder.” I assert with all the dignity I can muster.

He shrugs, still grinning.

“Suit yourself Doctor Scully but it’s the truth. My Mom used to give us chocolate when we had sore throats. Forms a coating or some such thing and I’m no medical doctor but....whatever; it worked.”

I immediately bristle on the slightly teasing inflection given to his use of the word Doctor, because despite the way he is looking at me, eyes soft with concern, a slight frown worrying his brow, I am in no mood to play games with him.

“Placebo effect Mulder” I snap 

He nods sagely

“If you say so.”

“And besides” I continue. “I’m fine. It’s just a cold and even if it were more serious I have a whole host of tried and tested remedies sitting in my bathroom cabinet to fall back on. Chocolate drops I might add are not amongst them.”

I probably shouldn’t have told him I was fine because for Mulder, me denying what he has already convinced himself of just makes him more determined to be proven right; whether it be seeking validation regarding the existence of life on other worlds, weird paranormal mumbo-jumbo or missing time phenomena, Mulder believes what he believes and he rigidly stands by those beliefs; directing the same unwavering certainty when making assertions as to my state of health and while on some level I admire him for it, today I just find it invasive and mildly annoying.

I’m unsurprised though when he pushes himself to his feet in one graceful fluid movement and crosses the small space that separates us, standing before me and rendering me immediately at a strategic disadvantage by his looming presence over me. I probably should feel slightly unnerved by his close proximity, not least because my eyes are now at roughly the same level as his crotch, and try as I might I can’t seem to make myself avert my gaze. Thankfully though, Mulder drops down to rest on his haunches and places his palm gently against my forehead and his touch is so deliciously cool that I make no attempt to pull away from him.

“Christ Scully you’re burning up. You should be at home in bed.”

My shoulders slump slightly because deep down I know he’s right but at the same time I’m annoyed that he feels such a need to state the obvious all the time. 

“It’s not that bad Mulder.”

Maybe he hears the slight warning tone in my voice that he needs to back off right now, because he removes his hand and checks his watch.

“Look, it’s almost four-thirty. I’ve got a couple of errands to run first but why don’t you stay here and finish up and then I’ll run you home? Is your car here?”

I shake my head, less annoyed than I was a few seconds ago because it seems that, today at least he is prepared to offer a compromise.

“No I didn’t feel like driving so I caught a cab.”

“Okay then good. I’ll be forty-five minutes; maybe an hour and then we’ll call it a day, and Scully? Try not to die on me while I’m gone; the paperwork would be a bitch.”  


Despite myself I can’t help a smile that tugs at my lips and he nods, clearly satisfied as he grabs his coat and exits the office.

 

XXXXXXXXXXX

 

As good as his word Mulder drove me home and despite myself I was grateful that I was with him and not some faceless stranger in an unfamiliar vehicle as he negotiated his way through rush hour traffic, glancing across at me every now and again but not passing further comment as to my state of health; he merely cranked up the heat in the car and found a radio station that helped to create an atmosphere of such relaxation that I was asleep within minutes.

I have hazy recollections of him waking me up with a light touch to my face as he smoothed a few errant strands of hair from where it had stuck to the corner of my mouth and I was pleasantly surprised when, seeing me start to shiver once I was out of the warm cocoon he had created in the car, he put his arm around my shoulder and pulled me against him, sharing his warmth with me against the frigid winter air as he walked me to my apartment.

He had, with an impish smile that made him look like a little boy, offered his help to get me undressed and in to bed but I had refused, shaking my head as I brushed off his playful banter lightly, even as a small part of me wondered what would happen if I decided to accept his offer. I suspect though he would have turned tail and exited as fast as his long legs could carry him. Mulder I have discovered seems to be all talk.

As it was though, he waited until he was sure I was all tucked up in my warmest flannel pyjamas and fluffy robe, staying in the apartment on the pretext of needing a coffee before he drove home; I didn’t hear him leave though because I was asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow and I think I may have been dreaming when I felt the heat of his lips press gently and briefly to the centre of my forehead, imagining the sound of his voice murmuring above me.

“Sweet dreams Scully.”

When I awoke hours later there was a glass of water and a couple of pills on my bedside table along with a small, beautifully wrapped square box. It was about the size of a baseball I guess and I couldn’t imagine what he might have bought for me; or why for that matter.

But now, as I hold the opened package in my hands I can’t help but smile at both the contents and the message of the small tag that I carefully removed from its ribbon tie.

‘One to be taken as required’

And as I feel the rich dark chocolate melting on my tongue and coating my throat with smooth mellow sweetness I decide he might actually be right about this whole medicinal chocolate thing.

Maybe I will call him later and tell him so.

Maybe.

 

End


	2. You didn't give up on me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Season two between 'One Breath' and 'Firewalker'

For the first time in weeks I actually feel kind of relaxed; in fact, given the way the shadows in the apartment seem to have lengthened almost in to darkness around me, I think I may have even slept for a while.

I’ve never been a good sleeper – even as a kid I would spend restless hours turning first one way and then the other as I became more frustrated by my apparent inability to turn my brain off for long enough to allow me to finally fall in to a state of delicious nothingness and the more frustrated I got, the more difficult it became. After Samantha was taken it became a hundred times worse and my nightly bouts of insomnia became so pronounced that I lost count of the amount of times I just lay there staring at the ceiling; waiting for the patterns cast by the moonlight to disappear as the first streaks of dawn came to free me from my solitude.

Eventually, inevitably, my schoolwork began to suffer as did my general attitude towards everyone around me; the dutiful son no longer so dutiful anymore, filled I was with emotions that were just too big for me to understand let alone even attempt to process and slowly but surely I began to spiral out of control. It became all too easy then for my Father to divert his anger toward me; to deliver almost daily punishment in the form of a flat-handed slap here, a punch there because it was just easier for him to apportion blame rather than to face up to the reasons for the decline in my behaviour.

Sam was gone; my life irrevocably changed forever and I yearned for someone to just sit me down and ask me why I was acting the way I was. But no one ever did – in fact day to day trivialities aside, no one really talked to me at all because if they had, they would have quickly discovered that I was living in a state of perpetual terror that I would be taken away too. Gone. Just like that. Just like she had been.

Eventually I learned how to function again; accepting that it was just easier to buckle down; to seek approval in whatever way I could, discovering a certain solace in pushing myself to be the best I could be; to prove myself worthy of being the one who was left behind. The days turned to months and the months to years and I counted down each and every one until I was finally able to escape that house of my childhood that had remained in perpetual mourning for eight long years of my life.

The insomnia though had never completely gone away and although more sporadic than it had been, I began to notice that it was particularly bad in times of stress or upheaval and it would return once again to blight my night time hours and if during those periods I actually managed to fall asleep, I would be abruptly thrown awake by the terrifying dreams that followed right behind me. It was a pattern that continued to repeat over and over and one which I had resigned myself to being unable to resolve.

Until Scully walked in to my life and took up residence in my soul; five feet of piss and vinegar who refused to compromise her integrity even when faced with the reality that the right choices weren’t always the best ones, putting her career on the line over and over even in the early months of our partnership and even though I tried to deny it to myself for a very long time, I trusted her from almost the very beginning; with that trust came a feeling of renewed hope, of peace within myself, of knowing that this remarkable young woman had my back. 

And the insomnia just disappeared.

Until they took her too and I retreated back to being that same frightened twelve year old boy who has remained locked in the darkest recess of my mind for over twenty years now. I didn’t sleep, didn’t eat, drawing on reserves I didn’t even know I had in order to just make it through another day without simply giving up and falling apart. Lying with eyes wide open as night after long night I silently made bargains with a God I didn’t really believe existed in the hope that she would be returned.

I don’t know; maybe those long, desperate nights where I made endless promises reached somebody because suddenly she was just back; barely clinging on and not expected to live – like a precious gift given but then snatched cruelly away once more.

But Scully is tough.

And she survived; seemingly with no ill effects.

It’s been just over three weeks since I finally got to stare in to those incredible blue eyes once more as she smiled tremulously at me; as she tried to make sense of exactly what had happened to her; to attempt to reconcile that a whole season had changed since she had been taken and could never be regained; at least not in any tangible way .

But with typical resilience she was able to find a way to put the uncertainty aside and fight her way back to full health. Today she is at Quantico undergoing re-certification and if all goes well, she will be returning to work tomorrow. 

I wish she would take a little more time but she has made it very clear that she is ready to come back and when I look at her now I see a hardness to her that didn’t exist before, a loss of innocence; of belief that justice will always prevail; that her belief system regarding good and evil has been smashed to pieces around her.

And it makes me sadder for her than I ever thought I could be.

Because now when I look at her I see myself and God knows it’s not something I ever wanted for her and certainly not something she has ever deserved.

The apartment is almost fully dark now and although the muted glow from the fish tank is oddly soothing, I rise from my position on the couch, stretching the kinks out of my shoulders before I get to my feet with the intention of turning on a light. A sudden knock at the door though stops me in my tracks and sends me reaching quickly for my gun. The events of the last few weeks are still fresh in my mind and those, coupled with the broken and splintered picture frames I haven’t yet bothered to replace serve as a stark reminder of how unfathomable the stakes have now become. 

I am taking no chances.

“Mulder it’s me.”

I release the breath I hadn’t even realised I was holding and after stowing my gun in the waistband of my jeans I move to let her in.

I’m still not quite accustomed to seeing her standing in front of me, especially looking the way she does when I open the door, alive and vibrant and directing a smile in my direction that lights up her whole face and I think it might be at that exact moment when I realise I love her; that she represents so much more to me that just friendship and it’s like a sucker punch to my gut; wholly unexpected and a stark reminder once again that I almost lost her.

She is holding a piece of paper in her hand and she waves it in my direction as I step aside to let her enter the apartment.

“I’m guessing the re-certification went well huh?”

“Dropped a few marks in the psychometric but still came in with ninety-eight percent overall and passed fully fit for duty. Skinner wants me to drop by his office in the morning for a briefing but then I’m all yours.”

And even though there’s a part of me that wishes she would tell me that she has reconsidered her career choices and has decided to return to the safety of Quantico; away from me and this quest of mine that has already cost her dearly, mostly I am just happy that she is happy.

“That’s great Scully...”

I tail off then as I notice she is worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, a sure sign she is wrestling with something; trying to find an opening.

“That’s not really the reason I came here though; I....well, I haven’t really had a chance to thank you properly.”

“Thank me? What for?”

I am genuinely mystified because I can think of a whole host of things she might consider blaming me for but as far as gratitude goes I’m coming up fairly empty; and then I notice that she is holding something in her other hand, her fingers curled in to a loose fist around a thin slither of gold that catches the light.

“For believing in yourself Mulder and because you never gave up on me even when everyone else did.”

“Scully..”

“My Mom told me how you refused to accept that I wouldn’t be returned and then in the hospital, despite how..” she swallows then, a thin film of tears sheening her eyes, tears which she keeps rigidly in check “...how sick I was you refused to let go of your faith in me. And she told me how you wore this, carried it with you, kept it safe until you could return it to me.”

Her gaze is unwavering, as she slowly opens her hand to reveal the necklace that is nestled within. 

Scully’s cross. 

Her talisman that over time also became mine – the one connection to her that I kept with me; those thin links of gold that represented a hope that continued to burn within me even amidst all the darkness of being without her; and I am unable to speak; to breathe; to move, as my throat tightens suddenly as she catches my hand, turning it so she is holding it palm up between us, placing the necklace in to its centre and gently curling my fingers back so she can cover my closed hand with hers.

“I want you to have this Mulder.” 

I can feel the warmth of the gold within my closed fist and the softness of her skin against mine and I know that this is a moment in my life that I will remember until my dying day. The day my partner came back to me in ways I can’t fully explain; that what she has given me already I can never repay.

“I can’t. I can’t take this Scully; it belongs with you just as it always has.”

And I pull my hand from where it rests beneath her own, lifting the chain slowly so as not to tangle it and reach behind her, placing the chain around her neck and fitting the clasps together before releasing it and carefully settling the cross so it sits right at the centre of her throat. Right where it should be and before she can try to change my mind, before she can speak again I take a single step towards her and wrap my arms around her, breathing her in as she sighs shakily before relaxing in to my embrace, turning her head so she can rest it on my chest as I feel her small hands slide around my waist, holding on to me just as tightly as I hold her. A connection regained that was so very nearly lost forever and I smile even as I feel the first tear escape from my eye to track slowly down my face. 

Because she is back.

And tonight I will sleep.

End


	3. Chasing his demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Season 3 - post ep Grotesque

Chasing his demons

Season 3

 

Mulder is shivering like a whipped puppy and I’m not entirely sure whether it’s a reaction to the chill wind that has sprung up since he got soaked on the rooftop with Patterson as we waited in the rain for back-up and paramedics to arrive or that the events of the previous long days and nights have left him suffering from mild shock.

Either way, he looks terrible and my priority now is to get him the hell away from here and inside where it’s warm because as time passes I’m becoming ever more afraid that he might actually keel over on me right here on the rain slicked street outside the warehouse where we played out the final terrible minutes of Patterson’s descent in to madness and frankly, there is a part of me that feels responsible for this whole mess – because I had allowed the creeping doubts to curl around the edges of my mind even as a small frightened voice inside of me had whispered that maybe, just maybe, my partner was losing his.

Watching him this past week, unable to reach him in any substantive way as he descended deeper in to the darkness within himself; effectively shutting me out as he fought to understand the mind of a madman has left me more frustrated and confused than I think I’ve ever been; floundering and ineffective in my attempts to be his partner; to be his friend. 

And right when he needed me the most I had let him down – unable as I was to reconcile the sight of Mulder holding a gun on Patterson with the man I had known for three years – so instead of having the trust in him that we have fought so hard to establish during our partnership I faltered; for a few seconds I refused to see what he saw despite my every instinct screaming at me that I was wrong I had drawn my gun on Mulder, seeking his justification when I should have simply stood together with him. And my procrastination could have killed us both.

He is watching the ambulance which contains the bleeding body and broken mind of his former boss, his eyes are far away, seeing but not really absorbing the images in any real way and the expression on his face makes my breath catch in my throat because right now he just looks empty. There is a bruise beginning to bloom on his cheekbone, standing out against the stark whiteness of his skin but other than that his face is alarmingly devoid of colour. Even his eyes have lost their usual vibrancy, the delicate flecks of gold swallowed up in the hollowness of his expression as he stands there, shoulders hunched, his whole posture one of defeat.

I am just about to reach out to him when I hear Skinner’s voice calling me over. He is standing just a few feet away and I am fairly certain his concern for Mulder that is clearly written across his face is an exact duplicate of my own. He lowers his voice as I draw near, barely murmuring as he inclines his head toward Mulder.

“Is he okay?”

I won’t lie to him; I’ve covered for Mulder too much this week and look where it got him.

“Not really. I’d like to get him out of here if that’s alright Sir?”

He nods.

“Will you stay with him? Keep an eye on him?”

I’m a little surprised by his concern since I’ve always been under the impression that he views Mulder as the proverbial thorn in his side and to be fair, given how Mulder regularly rides rough shod over procedure and protocol I can’t with all good conscience blame him. But tonight, right now my partners past transgressions are, at least temporarily, forgotten by our boss as he regards him with a worried frown that belies his habitual indifference; and it suddenly strikes me that, in many ways, Skinner has been as affected by all this as I have. I touch his arm lightly just to transfer his attention back to me.

“Yes. I’m going to take him back to my apartment – he needs rest and his place is a mess.”

Skinner of course has no idea just how much of a mess; I had chosen to keep quiet regarding Mulders current choice of wall art and really, there is nothing to be gained now by bringing it to his attention. If Mulder chooses to divulge it at a later date then that’s up to him. Skinner though seems more than satisfied and he nods curtly, professional mask in place once again.

“I think that’s probably the best course of action for tonight at least.”

I turn to go but pause as he continues

“And Scully? If you need anything you call me. I’ll be on my cel all night ok?”

The concern is back and this time directed at me because I’m not stupid; I know what he really means is if Mulder deteriorates, becomes a danger to himself or to me that I am under no circumstances to even attempt to deal with it alone. It’s a sobering thought.

 

XXXXXXX

 

The drive back to my apartment was filled with silence; in fact, I hadn’t realised until that moment when the tension that radiated from Mulder seemed to expand the air around us, that silence could actually be so loud. He hadn’t spoken one word to me since I had ushered him to the car; un-protesting he allowed me to push him gently down in to the passenger seat when he just stood there, expression slack as though he had forgotten how to get from the pavement to the interior and more and more I was seeing the symptoms of shock rather than just the effects of the cold. I had hoped that once we were on the move and away from the scene of Pattersons destruction that my partner might start to come back to me but there had been nothing except a single shake of his head as he had stretched out his arm to flick off the radio I had hoped might fill the silence between us. He had refused to look at me; had retreated as far away from me as the physical confines of the space we inhabited would allow, body angled away as he rested his head on the window. His eyes were open the whole time, staring at nothing as his breath formed condensation on the glass. And to all intents and purposes, despite the few inches that separated us, he might as well have been miles away from me.

And the longer it carried on, the more my concern for him began to ratchet upwards.

I’ve never seen him like this – well, other than the time he stumbled drugged and disorientated to my apartment on the night his Father was killed – but that could be attributed in a very real way to the drugs that had been fed insidiously to his water supply. But this? This is something different. It’s like he has simply switched off from everything around him; that his mind has ceased to allow him to connect with the reality of the situation in any substantive way and as annoying as he can be sometimes I would have given anything to have him turn and throw one of his patented quips at me designed to push my buttons and provoke a round of the verbal sparring that plays such an important part in our complicated relationship. But there was nothing and as the minutes ticked away, the feeling of his total disconnect just increased.

We arrived, finally, at my apartment and even after I had parked, killing the engine, he didn’t change position. No indication whatsoever that he was even aware that the movement had ceased. I spoke his name a couple of times, dismayed to find no acknowledgement of my voice at all as his eyes remained far away, unblinking as he remained locked in his own world, consumed by the darkness that had enveloped him over the previous days; a darkness that I could barely understand but which was all too real to him.

I had placed my hand on his arm, squeezing gently in an attempt to illicit some response from him but unprepared when he started violently, jerking his head around as though he had been fully unaware of my presence beside him and although I almost snatched my hand away, my instincts made me maintain the contact just for a few moments.

“It’s okay Mulder. Let’s get inside huh?”

I was rewarded by the barest of nods and I took solace in the fact that, despite my fears for him, he was still with me. Just. 

 

To my intense relief when we enter the apartment I realise that I had actually remembered to adjust the thermostat this morning and the air around us is comfortingly warm. I don’t generally keep my home too hot but the few days of rain we have had, coupled with a definite shift from Fall to Winter have attributed to a significant drop in temperature and since I’m not a fan of freezing cold floors beneath my feet I had cranked things up a notch or two.

I allow Mulder to cross the threshold before me and by the time I have flicked on a light and shed my damp overcoat, hanging it on the back of a chair to dry, he has made his way over to the couch where he just sits, head bowed in to his cupped hands. His eyes are closed and the sight of him makes a heavy weight settle deep inside me because I don’t remember ever seeing him look quite so frail before; my partner who has never faltered in his pursuit of the unending truth now displaying an air of almost childlike vulnerability.

It’s enough to send me towards him and even though I know he guards his personal demons just as fiercely as I do mine, I can’t just stand back and let him hide from me; to not at least attempt to chase them away so that he might find a semblance of peace within himself. I crouch down before him, tentatively reaching out, covering the backs of his hands with my palms and I almost flinch at how cold he feels beneath my touch as I gently coax them away from his face.

His eyes, when he finally opens them enough to regard me warily, are bloodshot and fathomless, devoid of the light and life that normally radiates from their chameleon depths, exhaustion greying his skin and leaving him empty. 

This is not the man I know and truthfully I have no real idea as to how to handle this situation even as I find myself instinctively drawing him towards me, sliding my hands to rest at the back of his neck, running my fingers through the silky strands of his hair as I bring his head to rest against the soft curve of my shoulder. For a few seconds he doesn’t respond and then slowly, so slowly he snakes his arms around me and begins to shudder against me, gulping in air as his chest hitches, his breathing ragged as he finally falls apart; finally lets me in.

“Ssssshhhhh it’s okay” I croon, fighting back tears of my own that are a direct response to the muted sounds of distress that pierce the silence that surrounds us, not least because after everything we have been through together, all the times when things have seemed hopeless, no matter how bad things have got, Mulder has never allowed himself to cry; or at least not in front of me. And as difficult as it is to see him like this, there is a part of me that knows he needs this release, that all I need to do is hold him against me and keep him safe because he is asking nothing more from me than I am prepared to give and certainly nothing more than he himself has given me in the past.

 

Our relationship is so complex – a mixture of friendship, professionalism, protection and respect – and perhaps for the first time I feel the fluttering within me that maybe, there are other emotions surfacing that until now I have kept locked deep inside myself; that what I feel for him is slowly beginning to transcend the boundaries we have rigidly set for ourselves. Refusing to acknowledge that we are connected in ways that cannot be easily explained; refusing to answer the questions that I know we both ask. But right now, I just hold him against me, waiting for him to calm and eventually he takes a deep shuddering breath and loosens his grip on me.

“It could have been me Scully.”

And my heart skips a beat with the painful realization that he is right.

 

XXXXXXXX

 

The Mulder that greets me the next morning, while still not quite back up to par is certainly a vastly improved and more familiar version than the one that wept hopelessly in my arms the night before. I had coaxed him in to eating a little soup, all too aware that he probably hadn’t eaten anything even approaching substantial for days, watching him carefully as he managed a few mouthfuls before laying down his spoon and giving me a half smile in apology. 

He was clearly exhausted. Used up and running on empty, he needed sleep more than anything else and I think he realised it too because he had barely argued when I had insisted he take my bed. The couch was comfortable enough for me - certainly large enough to accommodate my smaller frame -and to be honest I was so tired at that point I could probably have slept on a clothesline. I had managed to unearth an ancient t shirt from my college days which, although stretched and shapeless, was perfect for Mulder to sleep in with his boxers and I handed it to him along with a glass of water and a single pill. He had refused at first, but without any real conviction and I think there was a small part of him that relished the idea of the dreamless sleep the diazepam would bring and since it was Saturday the next day, he would have plenty of time to throw off any lingering side effects before we resumed work on Monday.

The pills were mine, prescribed for me when I found that, in prison or not, the evil of Donnie Pfaster continued to visit me in nightmares that would render me almost hysterical with fear. I had never discussed it with Mulder and with the help of the pills, he eventually faded from my subconscious and I was able to put him to rest. But I kept the remaining pills. Just in case.

Eventually, as I assured him that this was a one-time thing, that he would only benefit from the slight sedation the medication would bring, Mulder acquiesced and did as I asked.

I stayed with him at his request until his eyelids began to droop, stroking the tension from his face, softly assuring him that it was okay for him to sleep, conscious all the time that somehow, our bond had become stronger; that the events of this night had brought about a subtle change in our relationship that I’m not sure either of us fully understood.

And just before he slipped in to sleep, he caught hold of my hand, entwining his fingers in mine, his mumbled words barely reaching me as his eyes finally fluttered shut.

“Thank you Scully.”

He wouldn’t have felt the shift in the mattress as I leaned down to brush his hair from his forehead, before gently brushing my lips against his, kissing him softly with the certainty he couldn’t know.

 

XXXXXXX

 

I have left him this morning wrapped in soft blankets on the couch, still groggy from the pill but infinitely more together thanks in no small way to the hours of restful sleep and he seems content to remain there until I return in an hour or two from the errands I told him I had to run.

But I had no errands; at least nothing I cared to tell him about, because I actually headed straight for his apartment, steeling myself before I used my key to enter.

And as I begin to unpin the grotesque images from where he has stuck them on almost every available inch of wall I realise that while I might not have the capacity to remove his demons, I can at least chase them away. 

Even if just for a little while.

 

End


	4. Material things

SMALL CONSIDERATIONS BETWEEN PARTNERS

BY  
AllyinthekeyofX

 

Material things

Season Four

 

I’m not exactly sure what wakes me up but whatever it was has my senses already on full alert, as though my body is aware of something my conscious mind hasn’t yet quite fathomed. My first thought of course is of Scully; because if I’m honest with myself, no matter what I happen to be doing at the time my partner is never very far from my mind at the moment, invading my very core as I struggle each day to find a way to break down the painfully impenetrable walls she has built around herself; to be there for her; to care about her in a way she is seemingly unable to allow anyone to do. 

Since being diagnosed with her cancer she has shut everyone out. Refusing to admit even a token shred of need – of weakness – to me, to her Mom and I suspect even to herself. When she is standing before me, so pale that her skin seems almost translucent, the delicate network of veins that lie beneath worryingly visible as day by day she continues to fade before my terrified eyes; becoming ever more pronounced as the weight continues to drop off her at an alarming rate that is all too apparent as more new suits find their way in to her professional wardrobe. 

She probably thinks I don’t notice and in fairness I’ve never really took much note of Scully’s work wear – a suit is a suit is a suit after all – but somehow, during these last few months I have finely attuned my skills where she is concerned and now I notice everything.

Just by the tension in her shoulders, the way she is carrying herself, the way her pupils are slightly dilated tells me that she has a headache; that she is counting down the hours and minutes until she can surreptitiously slip a pill in to her mouth when she thinks my attention is elsewhere. The posture she adopts when sitting down, sometimes guarding her movement because her back and stomach muscles are sore from the constant vomiting she endures when the headaches get bad or when she tries to eat anything even remotely substantial. 

I know when she has spent a sleepless night coughing up blood that has found its way down her throat from one of the frequent nosebleeds – nosebleeds that, despite her efforts to shrug them off – are becoming an almost daily occurrence as the tumour continues to grow and the tiny capillaries within her nasal passages continue to rupture under the ever increasing pressure.

And even when the fear is radiating off her in waves, even as she asserts again and again that she is doing just fine, refusing to meet my worried gaze, refusing to let me in, we both know that she isn’t fine; that we are both playing out this ridiculous charade to avoid acknowledging the real issue. That she is dying in degrees; moving ever closer to an end that seems as inevitable as it is incomprehensible to me. That one day she will no longer be in my life and even worse somehow is the knowledge that she will die without allowing me to show her how much she means to me. Without allowing me to just be there for her; to wrap her in my arms and just for a moment, try to chase away her fear as she has, so often in the past chased away mine. 

But she is doing what she needs to do to survive right now and I have no right or reason to question her on it because a part of me knows that if she allows herself to succumb to the fear she will give up altogether. And I thank God that despite her delicate appearance and failing health, Dana Scully is strong. Stronger than I could ever hope to be and if I don’t understand anything else I at least understand that she needs to keep fighting – the cancer, me, her family, even herself – to find a way to keep going on; or at least until the day comes when it becomes impossible for her to pretend anymore. That finally she will stop hiding from me. That she won’t die without ever knowing just how much I love her, that she has made me more than I ever thought I could be and more than I can ever hope to be again. 

Because I don’t think I will manage to survive without her now; maybe a few years ago I could have picked up and carried on but not now; I don’t think I even want to try. She has become everything to me, becoming such an intrinsic part of me that the thought of losing her steals the breath from my body and paralyses me on levels I didn’t even know existed and now which holds me in a state of perpetual fear so intense I can sometimes barely even force myself to look at her; because to look at her is to acknowledge the fact that she is dying. That she is destined to leave me and that this time, there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.

And now as I lay here, my eyes becoming accustomed to the darkness, I wonder if I am wrong; that my sudden awakening has nothing to do with her because right now, it seems as though all is silent in the room adjoining my own, the room where Scully resides. Not ten feet away from where I lay and which actually, might as well be miles because we no longer spend any downtime together – the comfortable routine that we both enjoyed before her cancer struck is a thing of the past. Because the second our working day has ended she retreats from me as exhaustion greys her skin and slows her movements, needing to distance herself in order to re-group, to rest sufficiently so that she is able to keep working with me out in the field. And the fact that she is sacrificing every other aspect of what life she may have left in order to do so isn’t lost on me.

I don’t pretend to fully understand her motivation and since she refuses to discuss any of it with me I can only hope that her reasons are sound. That she is doing this because it’s something she needs to do and not out of some misplaced loyalty to me because God knows I don’t deserve it, even though, selfish bastard that I am, I can’t bring myself to imagine the day when she finally admits defeat and steps away from me. My partner of four years who has remained by my side even when we both know how easy it would have been for her to have walked away, to live her life the way it should have been lived; the way she deserved it to be lived.

It’s a bitter pill for me to swallow, this knowledge that had she never met me, in all probability Scully would be living a comfortable existence somewhere else, living a life not blighted by loss and pain and suffering. Because she doesn’t deserve this; she has never deserved it and regardless of how much I love her, how much I need her, I find myself wishing fervently that she had never had the misfortune to become mixed up with the likes of me in the first place. That somehow she had never been dragged in to this fucking awful world I unwittingly created for us both.

I swallow the tightness that has formed in my throat, an all too familiar feeling that threatens to choke me as the guilt once more threatens to overwhelm me, to unravel me, to allow the darkness in my mind to send me in to a dizzying freefall from which I’m not sure I could ever recover from, because self recrimination is not a luxury I can afford right now. Maybe afterwards, when this is all over and she is gone I will succumb to my own demons, but until that time comes I will remain strong for her whether she believes she needs me or not.

And so I close my eyes, willing myself to empty my mind of thoughts of what can never be, sinking back in to the motel pillows that are just a little too firm to be truly comfortable, knowing that it’s doubtful I will be able to fall asleep again but unwilling to get up from the bed lest my movements filter in to the adjoining room through the paper-thin walls and disturb Scully. Because right now she needs all the rest she can get just to enable her to function at a decent level.

But then I hear it. The sound of her footsteps as she pads across the room, a light switching on and then the sound of water filling the bathtub. It’s just a few minutes before three and I can’t imagine why she would be taking a bath at such an unearthly hour other than that there is something very wrong and without allowing myself to consider whether I am invading her privacy or not, I throw back the covers and cross the space from the bed to the adjoining door, praying that she hasn’t locked it from her side. But the knob turns easily and as I step in to her room, my heart sinks as I identify a second sound that is barely discernible above the running water; the sound of my partner crying.

Scully rarely cries in front of me. In fact I can count on the fingers of one hand the amount of times I have seen her so much as shed a tear and for a moment I am torn, hovering indecisively on the threshold because I know she hates anyone to see her lose control; to show weakness; it’s a side of herself she has always kept rigidly in check and I am raging an internal battle with myself as to whether my need to see if she is okay outweighs the knowledge that she certainly won’t thank me for my concern. But the sound draws me like a magnet, knowing that really, there is no choice to make. Because I can’t ignore her when she is in pain and to retreat from her now is just unthinkable to me.

I’m not sure exactly what I expect to see when I gently push open the bathroom door, certainly not the sight of my partner, kneeling over the half-filled tub with her arms submerged almost to the elbows in pink-tinged water and it takes a second for me to actually comprehend exactly what it is she is doing, what the white material is that she is pushing and swirling beneath the water.

And then I realise.

She is washing her bed sheets, or at least attempting to. 

Because they have blood on them. 

Her blood. 

A nosebleed that has soiled linens that aren’t hers to soil.

“Scully?”

She starts at the sound of my voice and just for a second her movement stills, but she remains facing away from me, her breath hitching as she fights to get control, to hide the evidence of her obvious distress.

“What are you doing?”

I take a tentative step in to the small bathroom, close enough to reach out and touch her but I force myself to keep my arms by my side, knowing somehow that to touch her now would be a mistake; that she will retreat even further behind her walls. Because by the set rigidity of her shoulders and back I am all too aware that she is mortified and that she doesn’t want me here. 

And sure enough

“I’m fine Mulder. I’m sorry I woke you up. Go back to bed.”

The insanity of this is so profoundly ridiculous I almost laugh out loud because my dying partner who is currently on her knees washing her blood from cotton sheets at 3am in a cold and dingy motel room in Fucksville Conneticut is apologising for waking me up. But I don’t laugh of course, because in reality there is nothing even remotely amusing about any of this and what I actually want to do is to slam my clenched fist straight through the wall beside me and just keep on punching until I’m so accustomed to the pain that I don’t feel it anymore. 

And even though I know it’s the last thing she wants, I take another step towards her and as impossible as it seems, she stiffens even further.

“Please Mulder.”

Her voice is shaky, from the tears or from the cold I can’t be sure and as she turns her head very slightly toward me I see a streak of red that contrasts sharply with the whiteness of her skin, blood that she has unknowingly smeared across her face, evidence of the nosebleed that started this whole thing off.

“Please just go back to bed....”

“I can’t” I whisper, finally reaching out to her and gently placing the palm of my hand to rest on the back of her slender neck. 

I only have the merest second to register the fact that she is freezing cold before she angrily twists away from my touch, shrugging off my hand in the process.

“Don’t.”

Her tone is as icy as her skin and I know that any second now she is going to tell me to fuck the hell off away from her. 

And I couldn’t give a shit. 

Because what she wants and what she needs right now are miles apart – that there are times for me to back right off and this isn’t even close to being one of them. So instead I simply reach down toward her, grasping her upper arms before hauling her to her feet, appalled at how weightless she seems. But weightless or not, she still has the capacity to be royally pissed at me and for a few seconds she struggles against my hold, prompting me to ease the grip I have on her, and which allows her to spin around so she is facing me, unsurprised when she delivers a stinging slap to my cheek, the sound as her hand connects with my face echoing around the small room like a gunshot.

I barely even flinch. Instead I just remain there, arms hanging loosely by my side as she begins to push against my chest with the palms of her hands, small determined movements designed to knock me off balance and make me step back. And there is no doubt in my mind that a year ago she would have achieved her aim. Scully is skilled in the art of hand to hand combat and I have seen her effortlessly drop men close to double her weight without even breaking a sweat. 

But those days are gone. 

I know it and she knows it but while her weakened body might betray her, the fire that burns within her is still scorching and this same intensity refuses always to ever let her back down and so she keeps up the pressure even as the tears once more begin to gather in her eyes.  
Tears that she fights with all that she has, so determined is she to remain in control; because when all is said and done, with Scully, it’s all about control.

Maybe I am being an asshole because it would be so easy for me to give her that control she desperately clings to; to allow her at least this small victory so that she can win this wholly insignificant battle even if not the whole fight. But I have conceded way too many times since this whole thing started, keeping my mouth shut and swallowing my concern for her a hundred times over in a show of denial and cowardice so pronounced that I can sometimes barely believe how I am able to look at myself in the mirror each morning. 

Because trying to deny what is happening to her is probably the greatest disservice I have ever given either of us, and tonight, to see her knelt on this cold floor, trying to wash away the evidence of her illness, of her weakness lest, God forbid someone blows her impeccably maintained cover, has made me realise that at some point in time, we both need to stop running before we run so far away from each other that there is no going back.

So instead I wait until she is about to push me again, stepping back slightly to enable me to capture her hands and still her movement.

“Scully stop. Just stop it please. This isn’t helping.”

She angrily tries to wrench her hands free and I know that the violence of her movement, coupled with my grip on her will no doubt leave bruises to mar her delicate skin, but nonetheless I maintain my hold even as those eyes flash at me like twin laser beams.

“ But I need to.....” 

Her voice trails off as she tries again to twist away from me, leaning in the direction of the bathtub.

“I just......I just....”

Then she simply stops. Her mouth hanging open as I she begins to crumple, the tears she has suppressed for so long finally escaping their confines to stream down her face as she bows her head, and her voice is so quiet, so broken and so fragile that I can only barely hear her.

“I just need to fix it...”

And we both know that her words are no longer about the soiled sheets that float sluggishly in the cold water beyond, in the cold water that is tinged with my partners blood, her life force that is growing weaker and more tenuous as each day passes.

Because this is something that, no matter how hard she tries, how hard she fights or how hard she denies, that can’t be fixed. 

By either of us.

So I just draw her towards me, gently and carefully allowing her to make the decision by herself and I am rewarded when she finally allows me to wrap my arms around her; to hold her against me; feeling her trembling from the cold as I rub small circles across her back, appalled at just how much weight she has lost as I feel the pronounced ridges of her spine through the thin flannel layer of her pyjamas. I don’t react though, afraid that if I do she will retreat from me once again and instead I concentrate all my energies on just holding her against me without breaking down. Because I know if I were to fall now, Scully would fall right along with me. 

 

XXXX

 

Scully is sleeping. Bundled up in blankets and dressed in a ratty old sweatshirt of mine that I had briefly worn myself in order to infuse it with my warmth before I handed it to her; knowing that once the connection between us was severed in order for me to lead her back in to my room there would be no physical re-connect – at least not in the short term.

Because in typical Scully fashion she had retreated from me on every level possible; refusing to meet my eyes when I finally persuaded her to slip beneath the still-warm covers of my own bed. Embarrassed, ashamed even, that I had witnessed such a monumental display of weakness from her as she clung to me and allowed scalding tears to burn so deeply in to my soul that I’m not sure I will ever be able to erase them completely; evidence of a defining moment in our lives that spoke of love and loss and a reliance that has been forged over the years by our shared experience; our shared loss.

I am losing her.

Christ, I am losing her.

And I don’t know how to make things better for her; for me.

But I was at least, in some small way, able to assist her in managing the facade she has worked so hard to maintain.

A trip to Wal-mart once she was sleeping where I purchased three sets of plain white cotton sheets and pillowcases. And if it seemed like a strange purchase to be making at 4am, the clerk who gave me just scant attention didn’t comment on it as she accepted my proffered credit card with only a token attempt at congeniality. 

Which was just fine with me because I wasn’t exactly in the mood for small talk.

And by the time I slipped between the fresh sheets on Scully’s bed, to give the illusion that they had been slept in, conscious of the sound of my partner breathing just a few feet away, I was already aware that when she awakens she won’t acknowledge it; that she will ignore what happened here in this room just a few hours ago and my clumsy attempts to make things right; to fix them.

But she will know I tried.

And maybe that’s enough.

For now.

 

End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has left a comment or kudos. You make my sad heart sing!


	5. No place like home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in season five. Scully's birthday but she isn't celebrating.

Season Five

‘No place like home’

 

When Scully had announced a few weeks ago that she intended taking a personal day in order to celebrate her Birthday I hadn’t questioned it.

A day spent with her Mom sounded like exactly what she needed right now, especially given the year she had just lived through. More recently with her loss of a daughter she knew for such a short time but before that was the Cancer, and the way she kept up a punishing work schedule even as she grew ever weaker and more vulnerable coupled with the stark realisation of her own mortality as the cancer finally metastasised, spreading insidiously through the delicate network of veins and arteries as it began to take her away from me. Quietly stripping the flesh from her bones and the light from her eyes as day by day she became weaker and ever more accepting of her fate; and I don’t think even she believed that our last desperate gamble would pay off; believing instead the tiny vial she held in her hands that day in front of her incredulous family could never be more than a last hope in the midst of so much failure.

And now, with the luxury of hindsight, I know she had agreed to have the chip re-inserted not because she believed it would reverse the cruel progression of the disease, but because I did. That to humour me was to have been her last gift to me; an attempt to ease the pain of her passing for me with the knowledge that I had at least tried even if I failed.

But I hadn’t failed – we hadn’t failed – and against all the odds she came back to me. Healthy and whole once again; or at least that’s what I told myself, and to be honest, initially the sheer relief I felt at not losing her overshadowed everything else. But the Scully who remained was not the same Scully she had been before the Cancer took up residence inside of her. Physically she was different of course – the weight she had lost during the many fruitless treatments she undertook had yet to be regained. Her appetite remains poor and more often than not when we eat together she opts for a salad or something similarly bland which she winds up pushing around her plate and offering me a half smile of apology when she catches me risking a concerned glance her way.

Food, she explained to me one day in a rare unguarded moment, holds little appeal to her now, associating it as she does with the frequent and terrible bouts of vomiting she had to endure over the past year or so when she forced herself to eat in the hope her body would at least garner something of nutritional value from the meal before her stomach began to cramp and whatever she had managed to eat was violently expelled in to the nearest toilet bowl or sink or on too many occasions, by the side of the road as we travelled to a new case, to a new city, to a new place of escape; moving – always moving – afraid to stand still for too long because somehow she knew that if she stopped she might never find the energy to continue on. 

And so the cycle continued; she would force herself to eat, accepting that, a good percentage of the times, depending on what she had eaten, within anything from a few minutes to a few hours, her body would betray her once again, leaving her a sweating, shaking shadow of the woman I knew – at least in the short term. And if that wasn’t enough, a nose bleed would usually follow a bout of vomiting as the pressure of the act ruptured yet more of the swollen blood vessels inside her beautiful sculptured nose and bathed her pale alabaster skin in a scarlet flow that, over time, took longer and longer to stem. I lost count of the amount of handkerchiefs I saw her toss in to motel bins, the pristine white cotton soaked red in a way that no amount of washing would ever completely remove until she simply replaced cotton with paper. Small rectangular packs of Kleenex, then later wads of paper towels when the Kleenex ceased to be effective enough and I carried them too, always ensuring I had my own supply should she require them; an unspoken acknowledgement of a necessity that neither of us could find adequate words to voice.

I try not to think of those terrible days where I stood before her, stoic and supportive even as I slowly and completely crumbled inside; wanting nothing more than to take her in my arms and crush her against me in the hope that she might finally acknowledge that she couldn’t hope to do it alone; that the walls she had built around herself were not the protective force she believed them to be; that it was okay to cry, to scream, to rail at the injustice of it all but mostly to just understand that it was okay to need and accept the help of those around her who were suffocating in the face of her own apparent indifference of her own fate.

But Scully – my brave Scully- had remained closed off and unwilling to accept even a token shred of comfort until right at the very end when one afternoon I had stood before her as she lay pale, tired and used up in a hospital bed that seemed to consume her very essence and she had held out her hand to me, inviting me to go sit beside her, allowing me finally to hold her, to fold her frail body in to mine as though I could somehow transfer my own life force in to her; to defeat the cancer using nothing more than sheer power of will because at that moment, a moment that hit me with all the force of a runaway train, I knew this was her chance to say goodbye to me while she was still coherent enough to do so. To feel our heartbeats merging in to one, to say to each other all things that may otherwise have remained unsaid. 

And on that late summer’s afternoon as the room became suffused with golden sunlight that filtered through the half-closed blinds at the windows, we finally re-connected and regained something I thought we had lost forever; finally understanding that Scully had pushed me away as much to protect me as she had herself. To keep me focused on the work where otherwise I would have simply fallen apart at the seams in the face of her continued suffering and I think I understood for the first time that all the assertions she had made over the preceding months insisting she was fine were actually made to ensure somehow, that I remained fine also.

But the knowledge of her sacrifice didn’t make it any easier to bear and I think I will forever remember the feeling of her disintegrating in my arms as she finally allowed herself to feel something, her tears soaking my shirt and imprinting on my skin just as surely as if she had taken a hot iron and branded me. And I fought with everything I had to not cry in front of her; forced myself to hold myself together enough to give her this time – a time to acknowledge all we had lost, struggled, fought for, lived for – even as her own life was draining away.

And through the tears we found laughter too, falling as always in to the playful verbal sparring that had sustained our complicated partnership through the darkest of days, deflecting as always when the pressure of the situation became too much for us to bear. An afternoon spent reminiscing, talking of things past and oh- so painfully of things that we knew could never be – that time had finally run out for us both and no more memories would be made; that our history together was about to come to an abrupt end. Because I already knew that at best she could expect a few more days of lucidity before her organs began to fail and at worst – the unthinkable worst – was that she may not even last out the night, weakened as she was there was every chance that her heart would simply stop beating in her sleep and she would quietly slip away.

She had given me a final gift before I left her that day, the small leather-bound notebook that I immediately recognised as her journal – the journal she had begun so many months before and which I hadn’t thought she had continued after our return from Allentown. But page upon page was filled with her slightly untidy looped handwriting as she catalogued with pen and ink all she had needed to say to me but had been unable to find voice for; a book filled with love and hope and which spoke, not of regret for things lost, but with her hopes that I might someday find the peace within myself she felt I deserved even if I didn’t believe it myself. 

I had taken it from her and she had turned those incredible blue eyes on me that in the past had seemed so fathomless, so hard to read when she slammed her barriers in place and for the first time I think I finally caught a glimpse of the woman she really was. Because all I saw reflected back at me was love coupled with a deep abiding respect for me that I certainly don’t think I ever deserved from her and right then I knew that she loved me; that in some small way she had always loved me, just as I loved her too.

Somehow I managed to tear myself away from her, managing to get to the safety of my car before I finally broke down, engulfed with a grief so raw, so consuming that I didn’t know how I would ever recover from it; feeling myself falling from within as emotionally, I literally felt a part of me tear in two. Unable to breathe, unable to speak, unable to see through the strangulating realisation that somehow, I would have to face a life lived without her by my side, I had finally become aware of the journal I was clutching to my chest, holding on to it in my hands as though it were a lifeline in itself.

That night I sat alone in my apartment and read it from cover to cover; hearing my partner’s voice in her written words as surely as though she were seated beside me, smiling despite myself at some of the memories she had included in it; words meant just for me; of shared moments in our partnership, words designed I think to sustain me when things got tough. 

And right at the very end she had expressed a certain sadness that while she may have never found her way over the rainbow during her time with me, what she had actually found was worth so much more and I had smiled again as I recalled a conversation we had shared once on one of the long, long drives to God knows where chasing God knows what, where I had expressed incredulous amazement that she had never watched ‘The Wizard of Oz’ the whole way through. That most American of classics and possibly the most easily identifiable movie in cinematic history, promising her with a smile that one day I would watch it with her just to see the look on her face that would surely mirror exactly that of the millions of people who had come before her; a promise which I acknowledged painfully, had become just one of many promises to her that would never now be fulfilled.

 

Two days later I had stood and proclaimed before a joint panel all I had discovered to be the truth, heedless of the ramifications such a declaration might bring upon me, I had finally pointed my finger at those responsible for Scully’s illness. Their belief in me, in the work, became secondary to my need to find at least a modicum of justice for my partner who had been nothing but a fucking lab rat to them. And the scepticism had been all too obvious; Spooky Mulder, brilliant crackpot who they effectively kept locked in a basement, allowing him out occasionally to howl his theories to a bright silver moon, having the audacity to name one of their own as being dirty. I didn’t expect them to act upon my information; and truthfully it didn’t matter anymore because all I wanted was to be with Scully, my letter of resignation neatly typed and signed ready to be handed over to Skinner when she breathed her last breath, when the journey ended for both of us.

And much later I learned the true extent of the chaos that had reigned in the aftermath of my revelations after I calmly rose to my feet and exited that conference room, ignoring the insistent assertions from the men gathered within that I should return immediately to explain myself.

Instead I had pulled my phone from my pocket where I had switched it to silent and my blood had literally ran cold at the amount of missed calls from Margaret Scully, expecting the worst, I probably racked up just about every traffic violation in existence as I drove at breakneck speed to the hospital, barely holding it together as I prayed like I have never prayed before that she would just hang on until I could get there. That I wouldn’t be denied the chance to hold her hand just one more time and feel the warmth of her satin soft skin beneath my fingertips, to be denied the chance to say goodbye.

On arrival though I had discovered her pale and fragile and weakened from the terrible toll the past few days had taken upon her ravaged body, but still very much alive and if the latest PET scan were to be believed , fully expected to remain that way for the foreseeable future. 

Because the cancer was just gone.

Taken away just like that; as though it had never been.

But after the initial euphoria had subsided, when life had begun to return to some kind of normality for both of us it became more and more apparent that a part of Scully had been taken away also; and that the bond we had formed in the final weeks of her illness, when she finally permitted herself to drop the barriers she hid herself behind was, while not completely severed, were certainly tattered and frayed as she pushed me away again and again in a futile attempt to make some sort of sense of all that had been done to her.

Truthfully I just didn’t know how to reach her, how to find a way to help her find herself again; floundering helplessly as she effectively cut me out in the aftermath of Emily’s death, refusing my every effort to help her grieve in a way that might bring her some peace; listening but never reacting when I heard her awaken on the nights we spent in motels, the ragged sound of her breathing as she tried to suppress the tears that always followed a nightmare where Emilys name was forced from her lips on the back of a scream. 

And it took every bit of self control I had not to just go to her, willing myself to remain where I was; fists clenched tightly as I listened to the sound of her misery filtering through the thin walls that separated us. But I never allowed myself to get up from my bed; knowing that it had to be on her terms; that she would only accept my help when she was ready to do so.

It’s a pattern that has repeated more often than I care to remember.

But more recently, she has seemed lighter somehow, more like the Scully of old and I had been ridiculously heartened when she told me of her Birthday plans with her Mom. Brunch in town, then shopping and either a movie or a show in the afternoon - Nothing particularly special sure, but finally, evidence that she was coming back to us after so many months of her own self imposed exile from the world; a tiny chink of light to find a way through the bricks and mortar that surrounded her as she began to choose to live her life again in a way she deserved it to be lived.

Which would all be great – if any of it were actually true.

I had discovered her attempts at duplicity quite by accident because Scully, as I have realised over the years, is as adept at lying to cover up her own frailties as am I and let’s face it, it takes a liar to know a liar right? 

Because this time she had me good; or maybe I was just desperate to believe that she was beginning to emotionally recover from everything she had been through and so to say I was shocked when Margaret Scully phoned me to extend an invitation to join her and the family for a surprise dinner this coming Sunday – held to make up for the fact (and this was news to me) that we would be out of town on the day of Scullys actual birthday – was a understatement so fucking huge that for a few seconds I was rendered incapable of speech.

Eventually though I had managed to string a few words together, thanking her for thinking of me and assuring her I would be there to celebrate her daughters birthday; a birthday I know none of us had ever dared hope she might somehow manage to reach, let alone that she might get there intact.

I had said nothing to Scully, not really knowing how to broach it with her and, if I’m honest, afraid that to do so would just send her fleeing from me in a way that has become painfully repetitive since she opened the lid of that tiny casket to find all evidence of her young daughter had been removed, that once again something had been taken from her that could never be regained.

So I have played along with her, feigning interest as she furnished me with the details of her plans, agreeing to try not to call her on her Birthday as she would probably have her cel switched off to enjoy the day; staying silent as I listened to her voice that was just a little too cheerful, a little too positive and which now I had been blessed with the luxury of hindsight, I recognised held just a slight undertone of desperation, that I didn’t question her too deeply; that I believed her implicitly.

And now it is the day of her Birthday and I have spent the morning tidying up a few loose ends at the office before finally exiting and making my way over to her apartment where I am pretty sure she will be. If I find she isn’t I will simply wait until she returns because while I am in no way annoyed or hurt that she chose to lie to me I refuse to let her keep hiding from herself like this. Because if she doesn’t open up soon she will simply curl in to herself and forget who she is; and I’m not prepared to let that happen. Not now she has been given a second chance at life.

I arrive at the beautiful building she calls home and make my way up the steps and in to the hallway, pausing for a moment before I lift my hand and rap gently on her door to alert her to my presence. She will know it’s me just by the sound of my knuckles against the smooth painted wood, just as i can identify her by her footsteps, by the cadence of her breathing, by the subtle scent of her when she enters a room; because I know her completely, just as she knows me and the first thing that registers when she finally opens the door is that she is hurting. 

I see the pain in her eyes even as she drops them to hover at a point somewhere just below the knot of my tie that I had loosened the minute I had exited the office; just waiting for me to call her out on the fact that rather than being out enjoying the day with her Mom she is instead, standing before me dressed in a ratty sweatshirt I easily identify as belonging to me which falls almost to her bare knees and looking like she wants nothing more than for the floor to open up and swallow her.

Because she has been busted and there’s nothing that embarrasses my partner more than to be caught in the middle of a moment of weakness; a moment of human frailty that God knows, more than anyone else, she deserves to wallow in occasionally. 

But not today; not like this.

I reach out to her and place my index finger beneath her chin, exerting soft pressure until she is forced to acknowledge me, removing in one small action her ability to hide from me and one which I have used in the past to similar effect. And now that I get a chance to observe her properly it is obvious by the puffiness that surrounds her beautiful eyes that she has recently been crying and that right now, she is in danger of falling once again. And while I know that crying for her is a necessary release that she only allows herself to succumb to occasionally, I don’t want to be the one that causes her more pain. 

So I simply dip my head and place my lips against her cheek as I whisper against her warm skin.

“Happy Birthday Scully.”

And I know that she will be the one to choose whether to step away, to lightly brush off the concern for her which has brought me here or whether she will allow herself to take the comfort she knows I can offer her if she only she will take that leap of faith to reconnect with me and in turn to begin to heal herself.

But while she doesn’t step away she doesn’t step toward me either, dropping her head again as the silence stretches uncomfortably between us and the battle rages on inside her, so obvious is her fight with herself that she actually starts to tremble, clenching her fists tightly in what I can clearly see is in direct response to the tears that have filmed her eyes again and which she is desperately trying to keep in check. 

It’s a fight she is losing though and when the first tear escapes it’s confines to splash on to her cheek I find I can stand it no longer; that to just stand here and do nothing is no longer an option; that even as I reach out for her she is stumbling forwards, clutching at my shirt as she anchors herself to me as though her life depends on it, sinking in to my embrace, her body shaking now with the force of her desperate grief – a grief I think has been a long time coming for her and which finally, inevitably has demanded release.

I don’t speak. Words at this point are not necessary because she knows just by the way I hold her against me, resting my chin on the crown of her head as I lightly tangle one hand in the silky strands of her hair while the other presses against her back, that I am here with her for as long as it takes. Both as her partner and as her friend.

And slowly, so painfully slowly, she begins to come back to me as the desperate cries begin to taper off in to hitching sobs, then occasional sniffs and finally I feel her take a deep, cleansing breath before she exhales slowly. I suspect it might be the first time she has allowed herself to really breathe for a very long time. 

I don’t ask her if she’s okay because I know that she isn’t. But it’s a start and I will take what I can get if it means her finding herself again.

Instead, I allow herself to disentangle herself from me, heartened that she finds my eyes with hers and doesn’t waver as she places her palm against my jaw, resting it there just briefly before sliding it down to follow the contours of my shoulder before dropping it to rest over my heart.

“Thank you.”

And despite the way the words catch slightly in her throat, for the first time in months she sounds like Scully again, the sudden realisation causing my own breath to pause momentarily before I feel a smile begin to tug at the corners of my mouth.

“Here..”

I reach in to my pocket and bring out the rectangular parcel that is already losing the rose gold paper I had clumsily wrapped around it. Gift wrapping has never been my forte it’s fair to say.

But Scully doesn’t seem to notice that the scotch tape is already beginning to curl as she carefully and delicately peels back the paper to reveal the gift below, her whole face suddenly lighting up with recognition; remembering a promise made many months ago as she stares at the VHS tape before lightly running her finger over the title.

And she smiles up at me, the first really genuine smile that has graced her beautiful face for longer than I care to remember and I know that somehow, she will be alright.

“So what do you say Scully? You want to watch The Wizard of Oz with Me?”

End


	6. To the ends of the earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scully awakens in hospital after being rescued from the ice

SMALL CONSIDERATIONS BETWEEN PARTNERS

BY

AllyinthekeyofX

Chapter six

‘To the ends of the earth’

Immediately post -Fight the future

 

 

I only have a hazy recollection of awakening briefly in the hospital and if it weren’t for what I do remember I would question whether it actually happened at all or whether it was just a product of my mind.

Because mostly what I remember is the fear; the absolute all encompassing terror I felt when I tried to swallow and discovered my throat was blocked by a tube, gagging as I tried to scream, to shout, to have someone please come to get it out of me. This invader of my prone body that stole my breath and rendered me almost hysterical as I fought with everything I had to lift my hands in an attempt to rid myself of it; the restraints that prevented me from doing so biting cruelly in to the soft flesh of my wrists even as I arched myself from the bed, the high pitched sound of alarms piercing my already aching head as I silently screamed for him to help me, needing him to find me, to save me just this one last time as scalding tears streamed down my face only to become instantly chilled against my skin.

 

And suddenly I felt a warm hand against my chest, gentling me with a single touch in the way only he can and even before he spoke, even before he entered my limited field of vision I began to calm. Because if he was here I knew that no harm would come to me; that he would keep me safe.

His voice, crooning words of assurance that I was alright; that a respirator was helping me to breathe, that I didn’t need to fear it, to fight it; and then his face hovering over mine, eyes dark and intense as he gazed down at me keeping one hand on my chest right over my heart as he softly stroked the other in a sweeping motion from my hairline to my jaw line and back again. And all the time he kept his eyes locked on mine as he spoke words of assurance that it was over; that I didn’t need to be afraid anymore; that I should sleep.

Whether it was his words or whether the nursing staff administered more sedative I’m not sure, but whatever it was it had the desired effect and I fell rapidly in to the comfortable nothingness once again, my last thought that of Mulders lips against my face as he peppered delicate kisses across my forehead, his breath dancing across my skin like a summer breeze as he implored me to sleep; to just sleep.

When I awoke next, the tube and the restraints had gone and whilst my throat felt raw and bruised, I was gratified to discover I could swallow without too much discomfort. More aware this time I lay there for a short time with my eyes closed, taking comfort from the sounds around me which I had, over the years, come to recognise without question – that I was safe in a hospital and not drowning in the darkness or blinded by stark, white light as unimaginable horrors were visited upon my mind and body. I concentrated on the sound of the monitors which I knew were acting as inanimate sentries to record even the slightest change in my condition, comforted in a strange way by their regularity as they recorded my every heartbeat and which told me I was still very much alive.

And more comforting still, I could hear him breathing close by. Knowing with certainty that he would be right there beside me, his long body folded awkwardly in to a chair not designed for long bedside vigils but one which he would refuse to leave for more than a couple of minutes as he stays with me just as I have stayed with him so many times in the past when illness or injury has threatened to tear us apart. When one is hurt the other keeps watch – it’s how it has been and how it will always be.

By the sound and cadence of his breathing I know he is sleeping and the fact that his long fingers are curled tightly around my hand tells me that his sleep is light; that the slightest movement from me will cause him to awaken with a start because he won’t risk me needing him and not be aware of the fact.

Shared tragedy, laughter, hope, despair, love and loss have combined to form a bond between us that even I have trouble understanding because sometimes I look at him and I find myself yearning to just sink in to him; to allow myself to open myself fully to him even as I feel myself pushing him away; the intensity of my feelings for him both exhilaratingly exquisite and painfully overwhelming at the same time. Because he is already my everything – this man who knows me so well, who has become my protector just as I have become his; he is my best friend and one who I truly love unconditionally – and the thought of ever losing him already has the ability to render me incapable of rational thought; painfully conscious always of the fact that I am not yet brave enough to allow him to mean even more to me that he already does.

I wish I were braver I really do; but I’m a coward in the same way I know he is a coward – afraid to answer to the need that has grown steadily within us both and which we are so adept at pushing away; it’s a thought that causes my hand to twitch involuntarily beneath his as I seek comfort from him just as I always have and even though the movement is almost imperceptible I immediately hear his sharp intake of breath as I lift my fingers to entwine with his, turning my head slightly as I open my eyes to find him regarding me from his seated position.

He immediately leans toward me, a broad smile lighting up his face and despite the stubble that darkens his jaw, he has never looked more beautiful to me. It is immediately obvious why he hasn’t shaved – judging by the raw, chapped skin on his cheeks, forehead and neck the last thing he needs right now is to further irritate it with a razor. 

For a fleeting moment I wonder what happened to him and then I remember being on the ice, barely conscious as I struggled to pull him in to my lap; to shield him somehow from the biting wind that buffeted us both with tiny ice crystals that stung my eyes and burned my skin like a thousand tiny pinpricks as he finally succumbed to exhaustion. I remember him carrying me, of his desperation as he implored me to breathe as his eyes grew wide with panic and the sweat beaded his skin; and although my thoughts are jumbled I am certain of one detail – that he had saved me; that to leave without me was never an option and I remember feeling his fear; fear that he would fail us both. 

But he hadn’t failed and somehow we had found ourselves on the surface, huddling together as the world around us turned white and fathomless and I had thanked God that if we were to die, at least we were to die together; that the solid feel of him in my arms would be the last conscious thought I would have before I succumbed.

And now he is smiling down at me, one finger hooking an errant strand of hair that has fallen the wrong side of my parting and gently smoothing it away from my face as he swallows heavily, his expressive hazel eyes betraying him in his pain because Mulder s eyes are truly the windows to his soul and right now they are fully at odds with his easy smile and I can read them just as easily as if he had neatly transcribed descriptive words with pen on paper.

“Hey”

His voice is barely above a whisper as that one softly spoken word hangs in the air between us and somehow manages to convey a myriad of different emotions that he leaves unsaid.

Relief, fear, concern, sorrow ,love.

They radiate from him in waves and settle against me like a salve and I can’t help but bring my own hand up to capture his, relishing the feel of him as he runs the pad of his thumb across each of my fingertips before he engulfs it in his own, angling his body slightly so as to perch carefully on the edge of my bed.

“How are you feeling?”

I don’t answer for a few seconds because in all honestly I’m not really sure how I feel. Because aside from the obvious physical aches and pains that I sense are tempered by pain medication that is no doubt being fed in to my system through one of the two canulars that are inserted and taped to the back of my wrist, emotionally I just feel....empty. As though my mind has shut down just enough to protect me from events I may not be ready to remember and in fact, if I’m completely honest I’m not even sure where I am; much less how I got here and even when I close my eyes in an attempt to bring rationale to the fragmented images that dance around my head, any kind of real connection remains tantalisingly out of reach.

So I stick to safer territory for the moment, swallowing against the dryness that grates at the back of my throat that mirrors the pain that briefly flares around my mouth as I try to speak and the skin on my chapped lips tightens and pulls. 

“Here. This will help”

Mulder reaches over to the locker next to my bed and lifts a small plastic tumbler of water that I hadn’t noticed before, bringing it to my lips and carefully inclining it just enough that I might take a sip and the cool water that washes over my parched throat momentarily moistens it enough for me to speak. My voice though sounds quite unlike me, weak and slightly raspy I can barely make myself heard.

“Where are we?”

Mulder sets the tumbler back on the locker before regarding me warily.

“You don’t remember?”

“I........no...not really....I remember being on the ice....Mulder where are we?”

I can hear the way my voice wavers slightly, panic starting to creep around the edges of my mind as I struggle to make sense of it, of what happened to us and suddenly the steady beep of the heart monitor increases in perfect correlation with the increased pressure I feel in my chest as my breath catches in my throat.

“Mulder...” 

And then he is leaning over me, still holding my hand tightly as he brings his other to cup my chin, his thumb playing against the tender skin on my cheek in a rhythmic motion that instantly calms me.

“Take it easy Scully it’s okay. We’re at a medical facility that serves McMurdo station..”

Even in my confused state I have no trouble processing the relevance of his words although I can’t even begin to imagine the hows or whys, especially since my last conscious memory is of arguing with him in his apartment.

“McMurdo station? But Mulder....That’s Wilkes Land. It’s in Antarctica..”

I trail off, unsurprised to see no reaction from him to my words while at the same time half expecting him to quirk his eyebrows in my direction, to throw me a smile.

*Had you big time Scully*

But he doesn’t. His expression doesn’t change and I am suddenly afraid; more afraid than I think I have ever been.

“Tell me” I whisper.

 

XXXX

 

It’s much later in the evening when Mulder finally finishes filling me in on the events that led up to us finding ourselves here and it’s a story that is so incredible that if it were being told by anyone other than my partner of five years I don’t think I would believe it.

He had refused initially to comply with my request that he should answer my need to know what had happened to me, arguing that I was still weakened from what I have since discovered was a serious enough case of hypothermia that my organs had begun to shut down, near death when the rescue team had eventually located us huddled together at the edge of a huge crater that had somehow appeared like a deep scar to mar the pristine whiteness that surrounded it. Another few minutes, another hour at most and I would have simply slipped away; the extreme cold stealing my breath as my heart slowed and eventually ceased altogether, complicated even further by the fluid that had invaded my lungs from what had been done to me and which had caused a partial collapse.

Mulder had fared better than I. His body mass and the fact that his core temperature had remained at a more acceptable level than mine had meant his recovery was relatively rapid once efforts were made to get him warmed up.

 

We had both suffered a mild case of frostbite – limited mostly to our faces, neck and hands – and whilst painful, it certainly wasn’t any great cause for concern and given how long we were exposed to the sub zero temperatures of an Antarctic summer, we were both more than fortunate to have got off as lightly as we had because had it been winter, we probably wouldn’t have lasted even a few minutes. But Mulders concern for me was all too evident as he stubbornly refused to give me a single snippet of information until I had been checked over by the medical staff again. That only when he was given assurances that I wasn’t about to relapse, did he return to my bedside and seat himself awkwardly in that uncomfortable chair, faltering only occasionally as he furnished me with the information I required to enable me to start processing; to understand how all this had come to be.

And now, as I concentrate my gaze on the blinds that have been tightly closed to prevent the light from the endless days that surround this part of the world in high summer from seeping through; creating a false twilight to confirm that it was indeed night time, I find myself unconsciously drawing my knees up towards my chest, wrapping my arms around them tightly as though making myself smaller will somehow protect me from the reality of Mulders words; a wave of revulsion washing over me as I realise what was done to me and what would have yet been done had he not found me when he did.

“Scully?”

The sound of his voice should comfort me, but in reality all I want to do is to curl in to a ball and make this all go away because right now, it’s just all too much for me to take in, falling away from him on to my side, still in the same defensive position as I begin to shake, hot tears coursing down my face and stinging the still healing burns caused by the exposure to the ice. Because I don’t think I can survive this. Not on top of everything else I have had to survive over the last five years; I’m just not strong enough anymore.

Until suddenly I feel the mattress begin to dip and the warmth of Mulders body as he settles himself on the bed behind me and spoons my body with his, wrapping his arms around me in a gesture of such absolute protection – of healing – that I feel another emotion building within me; a feeling of gratitude so intense that it blots everything else out. Because against all that should be, we are still here together; that he beat insurmountable odds in his determination to bring me back - that he would succeed or die trying; and as he tightens his hold against me, the sheer magnitude of his love for me fills every part of me until there is nothing left except him.

 

And I manage somehow to find a way through the pain and the tears and the barriers to put thought in to action, to acknowledge with words that seem woefully inadequate, the sacrifice he was prepared to make.

“Thank you” I whisper. “Thank you for following me Mulder.”

His breath is warm on my neck as he presses his lips to the soft skin that borders the shell of my ear, kissing me gently, reverently as though I were made of fragile china and might break apart in his hands.

“To the ends of the earth Scully. Always.”

 

End


	7. Swaying isn't dancing

SMALL CONSIDERATIONS BETWEEN PARTNERS  
BY  
AllyinthekeyofX  
SWAYING ISN’T DANCING  
Season six – post ‘The Rain King’

 

As I carefully negotiate the car back to the motel I am aware that Scully is unusually quiet beside me; in fact she has barely said a word since we left the auditorium and while I’m more than accustomed to the companionable silences that often stretch between us, this seems different somehow because the vibe she is giving me, while not annoyed exactly is certainly more than a little off.

If it weren’t for the residual floodwater that occasionally laps almost to the bottom of the door seals when we hit a dip in the road I would probably find some way to question her on it but right now I am more concerned with us getting back in one piece. The problem being of course is that the longer I don’t speak, the less inclined she will be to tell me what is bothering her. She has always been the same way and I’ve discovered through years of trial and error that if I can catch her early enough, before she starts to rationalise, I have a slim chance of her opening up; but leave it too long and the book is closed for good.

So I risk a glance in her direction, surprised to discover that she isn’t looking straight ahead as her profile suggested, but that her head is actually angled slightly toward mine, watching me as I drive us through the deserted streets. The minute my eyes meet hers though she swallows and looks away, a curious expression on her face that seems like a mixture of embarrassment and something else I’ve never seen before and which I can’t quite put my finger on.

“You okay Scully?”

I fully expect to hear the usual verbal fallback from her in response to my question and I’m totally unprepared when she simply shakes her head slightly and presses her lips together in a tight thin line – in fact if I didn’t know her better I would swear she is trying not to cry. And I’m mystified because as far as I can see, our night has been pretty successful at least inasmuch as we actually managed to close a case with some kind of positive resolution for all concerned. The rain stopped, order was restored, the good guy finally got his gal and no one died; all in all I that’s a pretty damn fine result for us.

It’s clear though that my partner isn’t sharing my sense of fulfilment. So I try a different tack.

“So how about Holman and Sheila huh?”

Nothing. Nada. Zip. 

“Scully?”

She sighs beside me.

“What do you want me to say Mulder? That I’m pleased for them? I am.”

There is something in the way she says it that should set alarm bells ringing but for the life of me I can’t quite figure this thing out and instead of doing the smart thing and letting it lie, I go right ahead in to dangerous territory.

“You don’t sound very pleased…”

“Leave it Mulder. I’m tired okay?”

And there it is.

The perfect opportunity to just back right off and ignore the way her voice has changed tone slightly and which is now heading from quietly resigned to mightily pissed at roughly the speed of sound and I’ve learned enough harsh lessons in the past where this woman is concerned to know that it would be advisable right about now to just allow her to wallow in whatever it is she is currently wallowing in and keep driving. 

But high IQs and eidetic memories don’t necessarily go hand in hand with doing the smart thing. So instead I pull the car over to the side of the road and switch on the hazards.

“Scully?”

Her name is barely formed on my lips before she rounds on me, twisting her body against the constraints of the seatbelt as she finally looks directly at me, her eyes liquid blue; dark and dangerous in the half light that filters in to the car’s interior from the streetlamps outside.

“You don’t get it do you Mulder? You just don’t fucking get it.”

I open my mouth to respond but find there is just nothing there, because clearly she is right. I don’t get it. 

Whatever the fuck ‘it’ is.

So I just stay silent, hoping for at least another verbal cue from her so I might make sense of what it is about this night that has upset her so much.

I don’t have to wait long.

“I’m envious if you must know. In fact I’m jealous okay? Because just for once I would like someone to look at me the same way he looked at her; like she was the sun, moon and stars and that nothing else existed in the world except her. I want someone to one day hold me like he held her; like he was holding the fucking universe in his arms and that she was the answer to every question he had ever asked…”

She trails off suddenly and whether she is aware of it or not, a single tear begins to track its way down her cheek as she smiles sadly at me.

“I wanted to dance Mulder. For a few minutes I wanted to feel like every other woman deserves to feel even just for once in her life; I wanted to dance with you and just………shit, I don’t know….just forget it okay? It’s stupid”

And she looks away, swiping angrily at that single tear, instantly embarrassed by her admission which is probably heightened by my reaction. Because right now I am just sat staring at her stupidly and I’m pretty sure that my face is registering an equal combination of shock and disbelief at this sudden outpouring from her. My partner of six long years who, if only she knew it, was already way up there with the sun, moon and stars and had been for longer than I care to remember and who makes the universe pale into insignificance every time I see her there beside me, as I marvel again and again that despite everything she is still with me. 

And I want to reach out to her, to find the words to make her understand, but what I actually manage is about as insipid a response as I could possibly make in the face of her desperate words.

“We did dance” I manage weakly and immediately wish I hadn’t when I see the disappointment and hurt flare briefly in her eyes. Because she has just opened her emotions to me in a way she never has before, laid herself bare and vulnerable and that’s all I could come up with?

I don’t deserve her.

I don’t really think I ever have.

Because I’m an asshole.

“We swayed Mulder. Swaying isn’t dancing; and it wasn’t even face to face swaying. It was sideways swaying.” 

And her tone just about rips my heart from my chest. Because I don’t know what to do to make this better for her; have no fucking idea how to respond to her as frankly, it’s a side to her I’ve never seen before. I know she loves me of course; I’m as certain of that as I have ever been about anything in my life, and she must know by now I love her too – that she is my everything and that without her my life is just a deep, dark, fathomless void. 

I mean surely she knows that……right?

So why didn’t I ask her to dance tonight? I mean, it’s not like the opportunity presents itself too often in our line of work, and most especially there is rarely cause for me to really touch her for reasons other than when the hurt and the pain and the emotional need within us both boils over. I can’t count the amount of times I have held her to give comfort – to her, to me, to us both – but allowing myself to embrace her just because I want to?

Nope. Never happens.

I think sometimes I am afraid to touch her; afraid that if I’m not anchored by the safety of our shared distress that touching her will make me feel something I’m not sure she is either ready or willing to reciprocate and the mere thought of her denying me, of pushing me away, of reminding me of the professional boundaries she holds against her like a protective force…..well, suffice to say it’s not a place I ever want to find myself in with her. We’ve gone through far too much for me to fuck it all up now with my slightly clumsy advances and sometimes it seems like I have a hundred checks and balances in place just to protect me from her. It’s one of the reasons I rarely drink when I’m around her now because I think my desire for her bubbles so close to the surface that it would take very little for me to push aside my inhibitions and simply tell her how I feel.

And that’s why I’m so confused now about her admission to me, because we both have unspoken lines that we never cross, drawn so very long ago and never really fading even when we want them to, because God knows I want to be with her but I’m Fox Mulder and my whole life has been pretty much about denying myself. So why should this be any different?

But right now she is hurting and every instinct I have is screaming at me to somehow take that hurt away. If that means stepping over the fucking lines then so be it; because she has hurt enough over the last couple of years to last several lifetimes and she deserves better than this. 

Maybe we both do.

I risk a quick glance at her profile, inwardly wincing at the tension that is all too obvious by the way her jaw is clenched, the slight spasm as muscle twitches against bone and it takes everything I have not to just reach out to her and stroke my fingertips across her skin. But this is neither the time nor the place, so instead I simply key the ignition and navigate the car back onto the flooded road.

XXXXXXXXX

We finally reached the motel without a single word being exchanged between us. Scully had totally closed herself off from me – whether she is still pissed at me or because she is angry at herself for allowing a chink to open up in her defensive armour I’m not sure – but the end result is the same and I know her well enough by now to have the sense to just allow her to do what she needs to do.

Right now that means she needs to create some space between us so that she can lick her wounds and attempt to re-group herself in some way so that she can close the gap that has inexplicably widened between us; it’s a tried and tested method, one we have both employed a hundred times, a thousand times in the years since our partnership began but sometimes, just sometimes, I find myself wondering what would happen if we didn’t always find a way to retreat from each other. I know full well that it is dangerous to think like that but I’m just so sick and tired of denying to myself and to her just exactly what she means to me.

I waited until she was in the bathtub – her place of escape in the absence of an actual room of her own – before I slipped quietly out of the door and headed to the motel’s reception where I had spotted a rather elderly looking cassette player when we checked in a couple of days ago and although I had hoped that I could persuade the rather surly manager to lend it to me based solely on my charm offensive, she actually swiftly divested me of fifty big ones with the singular ease of a backstreet hustler. Ten bucks for ‘rental’ and the other forty as security lest I decide to turn feral and heft it out the window; and it didn’t even occur to me to argue with her, because this is for Scully and frankly I would have removed the shirt off my back and handed it over without a murmur if that’s what it had taken.

And now, back in the room I wait until I hear the sound of the water draining away before I depress the ‘play’ button, smiling because suddenly there is music where before there was silence. I have no real way of knowing how she will react, but even if this goes horribly wrong, it can’t be any worse than what we had an hour ago and at least she will know that I listened to her; that I tried. Because truthfully, I think I don’t try hard enough where she is concerned and more than anything I want that to change – for her to know that she is important and valued more than I value anything else in my life.

The look on her face when she walks out of the small bathroom is priceless, not least because I hadn’t really considered the music choice might not be quite the most appropriate and that Phil Collins warbling that we share a groovy kind of love is maybe not quite the message I was hoping to convey but I’m a little rusty at this kind of shit and I think it’s fair to say that I didn’t have the luxury of forward planning.

But it’s done now, the choice is made, the stage is set and if I can only force a few words out of my mouth then everything will be just peachy.

Of course I find myself totally unable to string together anything even remotely coherent at this point so it’s probably a good thing that Scully, on occasion, seems to have the singular ability to read my mind and work her way through the tangled web that makes up my thought process because even as she quirks her eyebrow questioningly in my direction, she can’t quite keep the smirk from tugging at the corners of her mouth.

She is wearing a pair of shapeless flannel pyjamas that are about three sizes too big, her hair is slightly damp and curling messily around her face and as she stands there in the doorway listening to Phil do his thing, the smirk suddenly morphs into a full-on Scully grin that lights up her whole face and almost sends me stumbling backwards onto my ass because she is beautiful. 

Christ she is beautiful. How did I never truly see her before now?

So I step towards her, finding her eyes and locking my gaze with hers, conscious suddenly that something is shifting between us, that this is no longer just about making her happy or about playing our finely honed game and in fact, I am ready to acknowledge a truth between us that we have denied for too many years. 

 

I reach out and take her hand in mine, pulling her gently towards me so that she is nestled against my chest, the delicious feeling of her arms snaking around my waist, small fingers softly kneading my skin like a cat as I drop my chin to rest lightly on the crown of her head, breathing in the scent of her as finally, finally, we begin to dance.

End


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